


Encounters at Cups Coffee

by Nonplayer_Character



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Genji is Angela's wingman, Jesse is Fareeha's best bud, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonplayer_Character/pseuds/Nonplayer_Character
Summary: Fareeha first meets Angela while she is working one particularly slow afternoon at Cups Coffee: one an engineering undergrad with a part-time job, the other a soon-to-be doctoral candidate with a caffeine addiction. And then they meet again; and then they keep on meeting.





	Encounters at Cups Coffee

Fareeha is leaning against the counter at work, twirling a pencil in one hand, typing digits into the calculator by her textbook. Faintly, behind her, a coffee machine gurgles as the last of the water from the tank trickles into its pot. The sound is so ingrained in her subconscious she is not even fully aware of it anymore. Which is for the best – she has a test in her thermodynamics class on Friday she does not feel nearly prepared to suffer through. The less distractions the better.

Another small favor: it has been unusually slow this afternoon at Cups, the coffee shop she has been working at for the past two years, and there are no customers currently in the store. Study abroad is made easier with the extra spending money from working, but Fareeha wonders if it is truly worth it, for how little she sleeps … or does much of anything else. She thinks if she asked, her mother would probably provide her an allowance, but Fareeha has accomplished a hundred feats on her own perseverance (top of her class in the reserve officers’ training corps, good enough grades to get her into a university in Switzerland) and through all of this, Ana has only ever had criticisms. Criticisms about her plan to join the military upon graduating instead of pursuing a doctorate, about choosing a university out of country (which is hypocritical at best, Ana is hardly ever in Egypt; working for the United Nations and in the Egyptian armed forces, she is everywhere but). Fareeha guess her mother’s opinions probably comes from a place of love and concern, at least her mother tells her this often, but to Fareeha’s ears, it sounds bitterly of disappointment.

Fareeha groans - at the thoughts or her work it is hard to say - and flicks her pencil just a little too hard. It flies out of her hand and skids across the wooden floor just as the shop’s door opens with a pleasant ring from the bell placed above it. Fareeha follows the pencil with her eyes until it stops at the toe of the newcomer’s heel-clad foot.

Fareeha’s first thought, before the act of thinking has registered, is that this woman is absolutely beautiful.

Fareeha’s second thought is that this woman looks like she has not slept in a week and what she needs is most definitely a bed and an Ambien and probably _not_ a cup of coffee. It is not her place to say these things, however, so instead:

“ _Gruezi_ ,” Fareeha greets, formally, in what is probably the most sub-par Swiss-German accent one can muster (judging by the small quirk of the woman’s lips and how she brings a hand to her mouth to hide it). Fareeha tries not to blush, feeling embarrassed by her efforts, as she pushes her textbook and calculator to the side, to clear off the space at the counter. She has been practicing. She thinks on the whole, she understands the language fairly well, but she is not so great at speaking and has avoided it when possible. It is not as easy at work. She feels uncomfortable every time.

The woman retrieves Fareeha’s pencil from the floor and approaches.

“Hello there,” she says, offers the pencil; Fareeha breathes a sigh that they can fall back on a language she has been studying much longer.

"Thank you," Fareeha replies, and places the writing utensil with the rest of her things. She tells herself to keep it formal, it helps with the nerves - though she is surprised she has them. She is not a nervous person by nature, but it is good to be aware of her weaknesses, and how best to combat them. Pretty women are absolutely a weakness.

There is a name tag clipped to the pocket of (what looks like) a lab coat that the woman is wearing. It reads ‘Ziegler.’ Fareeha tries to focus on only the name tag and not the black turtle neck of the white pants or the golden hair or the piercing blue eyes (watching her studiously as she fumbles; fumbles to look as put together as she feels she generally is, fumbles for her bearings) or the way the woman smiles patiently and carries herself confidently and seems altogether too perfect (despite sporting under-eye bruises that give away a definitive lack of self-care). Fareeha coughs to orient herself.

“How may I help you?” Fareeha asks, finally.

“Just a coffee, please,” says the woman. Her eyes flicker down to the side, to look quickly over the textbook there while Fareeha retrieves a cup.

“What is your name?” Fareeha asks, finding her work marker; astutely focused on the task at hand. She is still a bit embarrassed by the pencil incident.

“Are you always so forward with your customers?” The woman smiles, winks. Fareeha’s ears feel oddly warm and she is about to clarify when the woman laughs lightly and waves a hand vaguely, saying: “It is Angela. I am only teasing you.”

Fareeha does not even care to shoo away the thought that pops into her head that chuckles at just how ridiculously fitting the name is.

In a bold move she half hopes Angela will notice and half hopes she will not, Fareeha writes “Angel” and then moves to fill the cup with coffee.

“Are you a student?” Angela asks, peering now more obviously at Fareeha’s notes. Fareeha turns to her over her shoulder and smiles casually.

“Yes," she says, and also: "a third year student of mechanical engineering at the university." If there is pride in her voice, she thinks it is well earned. Angela smiles back at her, leaning lightly against the counter; her eyes roam over the simple decor of the establishment: its wooden floors, dull blue walls, the mural of coffee beans painted across them and the low lights over lower chairs and bars where students sometimes study and business people read their newspapers in the morning.

“I am a medical student there,” Angela tells her, her eyes trailing back to the counter, Fareeha behind it, “in the doctoral program.”

Fareeha finishes the cup of coffee, with a sturdy hand on the lever, she flicks the machine off and breaths deeply before turning back to her customer.

“Well Doctor Ziegler,” Fareeha says, grins; offers her her cup. “One coffee - to keep you awake for future life saving."

“Thank you Ms. Amari,” Angela smiles pleasantly, takes the cup (her hands brush against Fareeha's in a way that is too much like caressing to be totally unintentional as she reaches for it, and Fareeha blinks to remind herself that she is probably overthinking this, as she overthinks many things) and turns towards the exit. A moment later, the bell chimes again as Angela walks back out into the sunny Tuesday afternoon.

It takes Fareeha a solid three minutes to realize Angela must have seen her name on her notes.

 

* * *

 

It is Friday morning and the coffee shop is buzzing with way too many people, ordering way too many things.

Angela wonders if she should not have just made a pot at home, as has been her custom for most of her university career, and then quickly dismiss the idea when she spots the reason she is here.

Fareeha Amari is at the register.

Angela has been thinking about her idly since Tuesday. Angela does not make it a point to go to coffee shops, or out to eat at all; her schedule does not really allow for it. The split second decision on Tuesday had been between class and residency when she had been in desperate need of caffeine and short on time to run home and get it. Happy mistakes, Angela thinks; and beautiful women.

Fareeha looks ... frazzled beyond compare, honestly. And yet as incredibly dazzling as she had looked on Tuesday.

It should be against store policy for her to wear a sleeveless shirt, though; the way her biceps and forearms move, the muscle flexing under her skin makes Angela's stomach turn pleasantly and she has to subdue her growing smile as she waits in line.

Genji called her smitten when she told him she was running to the store to get coffee this morning. Her roommate knows her like they are related and he was entirely too pleased to see her walk away from her case files and for the door. "Smitten as a kitten!" He had laughed, his green head of hair popping up from behind the kitchen counter where he had been digging around for the rice cooker (he wouldn't find it, she had hidden it in a bout of petty revenge for his previous offense of knocking over her carefully organized thesis draft, scattering the pages and dirtying the crisp white paper. It hadn't really been an inconvenience, she was able to reprint it, but at four in the morning and running on about two hours of sleep, it had seemed like a greater issue, and worth the punishment.)

Angela waits patiently in line.

When it is her turn, she steps up to the counter and is rewarded with a surprised and small but genuine smile.

"Hello doctor," Fareeha says, utterly charming. "How may I serve you?" Her little grins are radiant as the dawn, and Angela imagines if she laughed it would sound like wooden chimes in the wind. Angela blinks, surprised by the thought.

"A small coffee please," Angela replies, utterly charmed. Fareeha chuckles and shakes her head (Angela imagines she is probably wondering why Angela would wait through such a line for something so minimal). When Fareeha turns to get her order, Angela glances around and sees no evidence of the other woman's school work.

"Not studying today?" She asks, and her voice is innocent, deceptively so. Her eyes flicker up to Fareeha again, and she watches the way her back moves as she gets the drink.

"It is very busy," Fareeha tells her, "which is unfortunate; I have an exam this afternoon." Angela smiles softly, as it all clicks together.

"Is that why you look very stressed?"

Fareeha turns to her, startled.

"Do I?" She asks. Angela is staring at Fareeha's arms again and has to blink and meet Fareeha's dark eyes. It's an accomplishment hard earned, but rewarded well. Both in coffee and in a coffee-colored stare, both are equally beautiful in her mind.

"A little," Angela informs her. Fareeha sighs and hands her the drink.

"It is an important exam and I am not prepared for it," she tells her.

"Why not take the day off?"

Fareeha looks at her with confusion and a surprising amount of intensity; it shows in everything, in the honest curve of her sure lips.

"I made a commitment to be here," Fareeha tells her simply.

Angela blinks, her mouth forming a small oh. It ... shouldn't be so endearing, the way the woman in front of her says it; Angela gets the sense Fareeha's entire outlook may mirror this same attitude and Angela thinks she may be in trouble.

"Hurry up!" Someone shouts from the back of the line. Fareeha grins apologetically.

"Duty calls. Have a good day, Angela."

"I already am," Angela says, winks, and turns to leave. She cannot know the burn on the other woman's cheeks, the befuddled and hopeful spark in Fareeha's gaze - she does not see it.

Out on the street, Angela brings the cup to her lips and takes a sip, and then looks at the name written in a quick but sure script on its side.

 _Angel_.

And just as she had Tuesday, Angela wonders if it wasn't intentional.  


* * *

 

Fareeha is looking for her now.

Angela has been coming in a couple days a week for a few weeks, and Fareeha has found herself looking to the door absently when the shop is near empty - pencil hanging limply from her fingers. Angela does not come in in the mornings, she has found, (not since that first Friday) but she does come in the evenings sometimes and sits in the corner with a laptop and a file folder full of papers, occasionally looking up to grace Fareeha with a smile like sunlight.

Their conversations aren't long and Fareeha still knows quite literally nothing about her, and yet she waits: enamored.

Angela hasn't been in in a few days. It is a bit unfortunate; the evening shifts seem to drag in her absence.

Next to her hand, Fareeha's phone buzzes with a new text message.

It is from Jesse, the son of one of her mother's colleagues at the UN. (Also a friend of Fareeha's though sometimes she wonders why.) They have been texting for nearly her entire shift. She reads it:

 

 **Jesse:** _ain't heard hide nor hair bout this lovely lady of yours since monday, by the by. updates?_

 

Fareeha is not entirely sure he is writing English.

 

 **Fareeha:** _??_

 **Jesse:** _the pretty med student!_

 **Fareeha:** _Oh_

 

Fareeha shifts on her feet, hears the coffee pot behind her sputter, and looks at the door once more.

 

 **Fareeha:** _I have not seen her lately._

 **Jesse:** _'m sure she'll show. gonna give her ur number this time?_

 

Fareeha shakes her head and despite her best efforts, chuckles when she reads the message. Still, she deflects. (She would like to, thinks she might have at some point. But her school work comes first, her pride, and her ambitions … she has objectives, surely Angela does, too. More still: Angela may not even be interested in her.)

 

 **Fareeha:** _Is it not near 2 in the morning there, Jesse?_

 **Jesse:** _..._

 **Jesse:** _SHIT_

 **Jesse:** _gotta go to bed. big day 'morrow n all_

 **Fareeha:** _Sleep well._

 **Jesse:** _always do. 'm expectin updates when I wake up!_

 

Fareeha shakes her head, looks around the empty shop and then refocuses on the schematics in front of her; she’s been working on them for weeks. She should stop watching the door and focus a bit more.

She wonders if it is not a pipe dream, to create something that could allow her to fly...

She wonders if it is not a pipe dream, to hope to talk to a beautiful med student she hardly knows.

 

* * *

 

"You cannot keep doing this, Angie," Genji says from his spot on the couch. He is strumming idly on a guitar. If Angela had to guess, he might have a gig tonight. It being a Friday and all. She hasn't had the chance to ask him. She hasn't had the chance to do much of anything.

Angela falls into the seat beside him and rubs her eyes, sore from staring at a tablet for so long.

"If I can just figure out how to make these nanoshots work..." Angela says tiredly, "it is what all my research is leading me towards."

"It will not be worth much if you stress yourself to an early grave," Genji tells her. For someone with absolutely no room to judge life decisions, he does a winning job at sounding serious. "When did you last sleep?" Angela blinks and tries to recall.

"I took a nap yesterday," she says.

"That does not count..."

"When my thesis is done I will sleep," Angela tells him.

"You sound like my brother," Genji groans, throwing his hands up in exasperation. The guitar slips down his lap, but Genji has always been remarkably fast and he grabs it before it makes it to the ground. Angela has heard about Hanzo Shimada, a businessman in Genji's home town of Hanamura. He is apparently a workaholic. (Though compared to Genji, that may not be saying too much.)

"You know what I think that you need?" Genji tells her, his smirk is mischievous at best and he sets his instrument aside to lay a hand on her shoulder, as though he is about to impart wisdom upon her.

"Hmm?" Angela hums.

"Coffee." Genji tells her, and she can tell he is entirely self-satisfied by the way his lips lift into a huge grin. "Cute barista? Caffeine? Hmmmmmmmm?" Genji wiggles an eyebrow and Angela  almost cracks. "And I will obviously be tagging along."

"For a particular reason?"

"Wingman duties," Genji informs her.

Angela looks around their small apartment living room; decorated simply but pleasantly by Genji, and filled with a hundred little knick-knacks by Angela (a toy robot on their shared bookshelf and a dozen notebooks on their mahogany coffee table - a framed picture of the two of them there, too. Angela collects things and Genji, having never wanted in his adolescence, acquired his family’s minimalist aesthetic for however much they aren’t alike.)

"I am fine. I do not have time for anything other than flirting." Angela says, and it feels surprisingly unpleasant on her tongue.

"Angela, if you are waiting for an opportunity where you have time, I have some very bad news for you..."

Angela does not respond; of course he's right.

"It is settled! Get your shit!"

 

* * *

 

They end up going to Cups.

Fareeha is not working.

It is a particularly quick trip, Genji seems almost more disappointed that Angela.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Angela waves him off - feeling dissatisfied but not upset, really.

Angela spends part of the evening with a cold cup of coffee (which tastes oddly lackluster) buried in her tablet at the school of medicine's library on campus, mind off elsewhere: on brown eyes and hard muscles, a kind smile and smooth words.

 

* * *

 

Fareeha is in the school of engineering's lab at quarter past midnight, wrench in hand, grease smeared across her jeans, attaching metal to metal at a precise angle of degrees to hopefully foster sustained  flight. The test run of an early prototype had not gone particularly well, in large part due to the fact that one side of the project had been consuming more fuel than the other and the uneven distribution had sent it spiraling in a corkscrew of smoke into the sky … and then in ball of flames back to the earth.

The dean had not been pleased. Though Fareeha is not certain Torbjörn has ever been please about anything in his entire life. Still, she feels honored to study under him.

Fareeha likes the silence of this work, her treasured project and finding its flaws, fixing them. She does not usually work so late though, she is usually an early riser, but it is much easier to be productive at night. Working in the lab also helps her think about things.

She has been fighting with her mother a lot recently. Ana's deployment on a covert mission had not helped the matter. Fareeha hates the radio silence. Fareeha hates the way they do not talk about her mother's work; their conversations center around her grades and if she is keeping them, and feel hollow when the weight of much bigger things they do not talk about clouds the corners of their conversations. The disconnect keeps her up at night, all fidgety and frustrated, until she finally resolves to put the restless potential energy to use.

She loves to build things, create and sculpt and enhance, but even this seems to be doing her no good tonight. If anything, it makes the unrest more pronounced.

She sets down her wrench, clenching her fist around it before she releases it to the workbench, and breathes out deeply through her nose ( _it does no good to dwell_ ) and decides that perhaps she ought to get back to her dorm.

She puts away her gear, stores her project in a locker in the back and grabs her jacket: old and worn leather soft against her fingertips, a comfort. It is warm too, which is important. With her stuff away, she makes for the exit and into the evening air.

It is really an altogether pleasant night, sometimes it gets so cold in Switzerland, and Fareeha is left regretting every decision she has ever made. But it isn't that way now, the air is crisp, but her jacket keeps it from biting; street lamps illuminate near empty sidewalks and the building architecture captivates Fareeha's eyes. She has always loved this campus - it is green, so green, filled with life and energy, the buildings are accents to the environment rather than the environment itself. The still and the quiet of the are also nice, but they do little to dampen her harried mind.

She is walking across the quad, towards the undergraduate dorms, when someone puts a hand on her shoulder.

It is years of in-school military training and out-of-school boxing competitions which propels her into a crouch, a pivot, a fighting stance. Ready for an assault, prepared for the assailant.

Angela does not follow her through these steps, she just drops her hand.

Fareeha is most of all things surprised to see her. In the late and the dark, there are about a hundred people she imagines she might find out other than Angela Ziegler.

The could-be doctor’s short hair is pulled into a shorter ponytail; she's got an arm full of books and a tablet resting on top of them. The holoscreen is still lit up, as if she had been looking at it and had not thought to lock it prior to reaching out to Fareeha, and displays what looks like a syringe, and a couple of diagrams with it.

She's wearing black skinny jeans. She's wearing a white, loose blouse.

She's wearing a soft smile, an amused curve to it. She looks utterly devastating.

"Angela," Fareeha greets, and deflates into a more casual presence.

"Oh, is that my name?" Angela smiles easily and innocently, "I thought it was angel." Fareeha feels her ears burn at having been caught. Still, she had half wanted it, had she not?

"Noticed that did you?" Fareeha grins, she rubs her cheek to do something with her hands, but then Angela laughs a bit. Fareeha looks down to see grease on her palm.

"It is not every day a beautiful barista calls you angel," Angela tells her, unconcerned with Fareeha's constant flubbing. She brings a hand to Fareeha's cheek, with the intent to wipe away the grease, and even though Fareeha knows that it will take more than a simple swipe of her fingers, she does not stop her.

"Beautiful?" Fareeha grins, almost blushes. Angela winks, runs her thumb under Fareeha's eye, the tattoo Fareeha knows is there. "It may not wipe away so easily, I will wash it off when I get home," Fareeha finally tells her, but hates the lack of warmth from Angela's hand when she admits defeats and drops it.

Angela seems to consider Fareeha's words for a moment and then smiles; though Fareeha will later call it a smirk.

"Or," she begins, "you could leave it and come with me instead," Fareeha has never not been able to read someone as much as she is unable to read Angela Ziegler.

"Excuse me?" Fareeha blinks.

"Come with me?" Angela repeats, "I am leaving the library to go watch my roommate perform at a bar downtown." A pause. “It could be fun?”

Fareeha's only real thought is: that explains the outfit.

Less coherent thoughts scream yes in varying degrees of intensity and Fareeha finds herself saying "alright" before she is quite sure that it is a good idea.

She would not have been able to sleep anyway, she reasons, she would just lay in bed, thinking and overthinking - as is her general custom. She has not been out in months, with school and her meager social life (she talks to Jesse a lot, but him being in North American hinders any nights out). She does not usually get invited places by patrons from her work; least of all pretty ones; less of least of all at midnight and on what can only be a whim in a place other than the establishment of patronage.

Fareeha thinks 'live a little' and nothing is there to argue against it.

Angela smiles and it is the most beautiful thing Fareeha thinks she has ever seen in her entire twenty-two years of life. It is, she thinks lamely, brighter than the moon and all the stars above them.

 

* * *

 

Angela giggles into a glass of wine as Fareeha spreads her hand out over their hightop table. The movement is controlled, as everything about Fareeha is, but there is a high flush in her cheeks and a more relaxed air about her which Angela hasn't yet seen. It's probably the alcohol.

It is a nice change of pace from their previous meetings. When Fareeha works, she works hard and their conversations only consist of small talk. Angela find this to be a much better encounter.

Their table is in the back of the bar, away from the more boisterous crowd; a low light over it cast shadows over both their faces and across the wooden table top and floor beneath it.

"...It set fire to the green space outside of the graduate dorms..." Fareeha chuckles guiltily into her glass of beer.

"That was you?" Angela brings a hand to her mouth to hide her bubbling laughter. "I had wondered..."

"I do not think Torbjörn appreciated it." Fareeha tells her, and looks genuinely despaired by the possibility that the grumpy dean might have her on some sort of shit list. Angela waves away the concern with a flourish of her hand.

"He is all bark," she says and takes a sip, "if you had got into any real trouble, I imagine he would probably be the first to defend you." Fareeha watches her carefully.

"Do you know him?" She asks. Angela turns to her with a secretive smile.

"Better than you might think; he is ... almost an uncle to me." Fareeha seems surprised.

"With every bit of information I learn about you, I find you to be even more of a mystery," Fareeha tells her lightly, smiling. She turns to the stage to watch Genji and his band as they make their way through the last half of their set.

Angela does not watch Genji, her eyes are very much on Fareeha, and have been for most of the evening. She is trying to place the tightness in the woman's shoulders, but then she is also very much aware of the pleasant heat in her own stomach, which tells her she is into something she most definitely should not be.

Even still, she does not regret dragging Fareeha along (though she might when Genji is able to join them) - she wants to know more about the woman; she knows virtually nothing at all.

"I could say the same of you," Angela replies lightly. Fareeha turns back to her and Angela feels gratified by the action.

Fareeha crosses her arms over one another on the table and looks at Angela with piercing brown eyes.

"And what would you like to know, doctor?"

Everything, Angela does not say, but desperately wants to.

"Anything."

Fareeha takes a swallow from her glass and hums thoughtfully for a moment, her mouth loose around the mug's lip. When she licks her bottom lip clean of the liquid Angela swallows lightly and breaths deep, resting her chin in the palm of her hand for lack of anything better to do with it.

"I work at a coffee shop," Fareeha finally tells her, teasingly. Angela rolls her eyes but her smile persists.

"I see how it is," Angela says, "alright. Tell me this: is there a story to your jacket?"

Fareeha glances briefly at the jacket thrown over her chair's back. She looks at it for what seems like a long time before she turns back to Angela. Angela breaths beep in anticipation of nothing she can name.

"It was my mother's," Fareeha tells her, "I stole it from her when I was ... maybe 18?"

"You don't seem the type to steal," Angela says casually, the hand not supporting her chin inches across the table to Fareeha's gradually.

"Borrowed indefinitely, then," Fareeha grins. "She knows I have it, but I do not intend to give it back. I believe it was a gift to her from my ami - my other mom."

Angela does not miss the way Fareeha's eyes dart to the side and she has the compassion not to push the subject. Not this time, one day maybe. Instead, her hand makes it the rest of the way across the distance of the table and she laces her finger through Fareeha's to no protest. Her thumb traces circles on the other woman's palm.

"And what about you?" Fareeha asks, quietly, her eyes watching their hands, mesmerized. Her voice is distant and contemplative, and beautifully soft. 

"I am a med student," Angela says, mimicking Fareeha's earlier teasing tone.

"Okay," Fareeha chuckles, "why?"

"A desire to make the world a better place," Angela tells her simply, "is that not why we do the things we do?"

Fareeha watches her for a moment, seeming to study her, but Angela is unconcerned by what she may find.

"Some of us I suppose," Fareeha tells her, "but the world is full of all sorts of good _and_ bad people." Angela laughs. It is not mocking, or cryptic, only like she knows something Fareeha hasn't yet been made privy to.

"Not ' _we_ ' as in ' _people_ ,' Fareeha," She finally says, "' _we_ ' as in ' _you and me_.'"

Fareeha looks taken aback, confused, almost. She watches their hands and then her eyes dart to the stage, diverting. Genji is no longer up there; Angela doesn't know where he's got to - she doesn’t particularly care.

"I am not saying you are wrong, but what makes you think that is _my_ desire?"

Angela shrugs.

"Call it intuition," she tells Fareeha, "or maybe call it hope."

 

* * *

 

Fareeha wants to kiss her.

It is what she is thinking about and has been thinking about the entire time Angela has been rubbing circles in her palm. Her skin is soft, her lips look soft. Fareeha does not think Angela would stop her if she tri-

"Angela!" Someone shouts. Fareeha, surprised, bolts out of her chair like a deer in the headlights, she drops Angela's hand and whips around, the quickness of it makes her lightheaded for a beat.

It is Genji.

He looks like a fox, the way he grins when he approaches. Fareeha blushes burgundy, and although it is probably the beer, it does not change the fact.

As he approaches, Genji swaggers, and he smiles like the Cheshire Cat.

"And you must be the sexy barista," Genji says. Fareeha coughs, the blush rising higher, and Angela groans. Any thoughts of a kiss fly out of Fareeha’s mind like a kite in the wind.

"Why are you like this..." Fareeha hears Angela mutter behind her.

Genji looks past Fareeha to grin at her cheekily.

"I like the wry smile you give when I embarrass you," he tells her, and then places a hand on Fareeha's shoulder and looks her very kindly in the eye.

"Angie is my best friend; I have known her since I first came to this county, I like to make sure she is never too comfortable," he tells her, and squeezes Fareeha's shoulder briefly before dropping his hand entirely, to offer it in the form of a shake. "I am Genji Shimada, second in line to the Shimada clan, avid lover of music, man at peace with himself and," Genji's voice lowers fairly so that it almost blends in with the chatter of the bar, "not too bad with the men, if I may say," his voice evens out again, "nice to meet you."

Fareeha shakes his hand and feels very, very out of place.

"Fareeha Amari," she says simply, dazed.

Genji flashes her that conspirator grin again and pulls a seat up to their table. He waves his hand vaguely in the air and a moment later a waitress comes over as if from thin air, receives his order. She returns a few minutes later with something fruity which smells especially good.

Fareeha finds her seat, in the waitress' absence, and takes it as Genji jumps into his experience on stage and Angela assures him that it was very good. Fareeha is content with the banter Genji and Angela partake in as she sips her beer; feeling a bit like a stranger, a bit like a companion. And feeling oddly at peace with her lot. Feeling oddly happy, though she hasn't in quite awhile.

"So has Angela told you about her nanoshot yet?" Genji asks, bringing Fareeha back into the conversation. "I hope she will talk to you so much about it that I will never have to hear of it again."

Fareeha says no and Angela, thus far subdued in all but her flirtations and her curiosity, launches into what becomes an hour long monologue about nanomedicine and the insta-cure she has constructed of it - or is trying to.

Fareeha listens, enraptured.

Genji sips his drink, drums his hands on the tabletop, and lets his mind wander.

 

* * *

 

Fareeha Amari, Genji thinks, is exactly what Angela Ziegler needs in her life.

Something stable.

Angela has not been stable since childhood, and perhaps before, though Genji can't really say. All the better to get on with the pretty Egyptian woman.

 

* * *

 

At half past three in the morning, Angela drops Fareeha off at her dorm. A dozen lights are on in the building, but for the lack of movement - it feels almost abandoned. Four stories tall and not a single indication of life. To Angela, it feels like at that particular moment the night only contains she and Fareeha.

“Thank you,” says Fareeha, as she opens the door to the car and steps out. Angela smiles at her, of the two - she is the less intoxicated (driving and all, she’d been counting her own drinks).

“Of course,” Angela says, “it was a good time, wasn’t it?”

For a very long time Fareeha just watches her, her eyes bright and curious. Angela does not feel uncomfortable under the gaze, she feels warm.

“Yes,” Fareeha finally says, “but ... why did you … invite me?” Fareeha clears her throat, rubs her neck in what Angela is beginning to understand is a nervous habit. “Not that I am complaining. It is just that, we do not know each other very well - I do not think I would have even noticed you were in the quad if you had not approached me.”

Angela smiles. Of course, she knows her own motives. Angela knows herself better than most people might. Knows her actions, can guess at their consequences. Judges her actions against her guesses of others. She feels like a bad person, at times, when she reads her surroundings so closely. But not here. Not this time.

“I had intended only to say hi,” Angela tells her quietly, but with a sure steadiness, “but you looked … upset. It is not in my nature to let people suffer in silence, Fareeha.”

“Oh,” Fareeha responds, stunned, but steadily smiling. “Well - thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Angela smiles, Fareeha moves to shut the door but Angela stops her just before she does. “I may have had more selfish reasons, too…” she says, but does not elaborate. Fareeha grins. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” Fareeha responds, closes the door, walks back to her room feeling light and happy and very much feeling like she is twelve years old again with her first crush. 

 

* * *

 

“Ask her out,” Genji says, Tuesday morning, eating egg on rice, sitting at their bar. The egg slips through his chopsticks and hits the bowl with a splat to his endless frustration and astonishment. When was the last time something slipped from his grasp?

Angela’s nose is buried deep in a medical book, her glasses slipping down as she squints at the text. Her pen is tucked behind her ear and she’s only half paying attention. The breakfast Genji made her is sitting off to the side, untouched.

“Hmm?” She hums, looks up vaguely.

“Fareeha,” Genji waves a hand and stuffs the rest of the egg in his mouth, “ask her out,” he says through the food. Angela’s nose scrunches up in disgust at his manners.

“That is disgusting,” Angela tells him, and does not respond to his statement. Truthfully, she had been thinking about it for days - in between studying and clinicals and the many other aspects of her life. She wants to. She finds all the reasons she once had for not doing so seem unsubstantial when compared to Fareeha Amari.

Genji swallows, huffs, walks around the counter to sit beside her at the coffee table.

“Ask her out,” he repeats, again.  


 

* * *

 

 **Jesse:** _not seen her since ur date last week?_

 **Fareeha:** _No …  it wasn’t a date either, Jesse._

 **Jesse:** _drinks at a bar’s not a date now? sounds like a date to me_

 

Fareeha glances at the empty shop - it has been empty for hours, it is like time is torturing her with its slow progress - before she flips from her conversation with Jesse to read over her mother’s text again.

 

_I am back in Egypt, call tonight. Has anything happened while I was unavailable?_

 

Fareeha is glad to hear she is home, gladder still to get to talk to her tonight.

 

 **Jesse:** _m i just old fashioned?_

 

Fareeha snorts, shakes her head. The door to Cups chimes pleasantly and Fareeha types her response quickly before she looks up to the customer:

 

 **Fareeha:** _No. Just old._

 

“ _Gruezi_ ,” Fareeha greets.

Judging by the light, humored lift of Angela’s lips, Fareeha guesses her accent has not gotten any better.

“Hello there,” she says. She looks - well a lot of things but above all - well rested, which is a bit of a surprise. Fareeha grins at her, and feeling warm and glad to see her for the first time in nearly a week, grabs a cup even as she asks

“And what would you like today Doctor Ziegler?”

Angela glances around the shop for a moment, seeming to be looking for something, before she walks towards the counter; Fareeha notices that she is not carrying her bag or any papers; that she looks almost … off?

“Are you alright, Angela?” Fareeha asks her when she reaches the counter, genuinely concerned. She doesn’t look unwell - Fareeha can not place the pacilureness around her.

Angela smiles and it is flirty and direct; she places her hands on the counter between them and watches Fareeha closely.

“I would like you,” Angela says. Fareeha blinks at her stupidly for a moment, and after that moment she feels her ears burn.

“What?”

“To go on a date with me,” Angela adds, “or to kiss me,” Fareeha feels very warm. “...Very possibly both.”

Stunned, Fareeha does not quite know what to say, and perhaps she forgets for a moment how to speak because after an uncomfortable stretch of time, Angela frowns and pulls back a bit.

“Was that too forward?” She asks, “I’m sorry-”

“No,” Fareeha says at last, her tongue returning to her and feeling equal parts elated and amazed.  “No, I was only surprised I - I would be more than happy to go out with you.”

Angela’s entire face lights up.

“Good!” She smiles, “great …” Fareeha laughs with nothing else to do, and nods. She has never felt so light, she doesn’t think. Her stomach is full of butterflies. “...and,” Angela says shyly, mischievously? “The kiss?”

 

* * *

 

**1 unread message - 3 hours ago.**

  
**Jesse:** _Now thats just rude  
_

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write something lighthearted, and then it got too long, and then I gave up on the ending. So it kind of fizzles.


End file.
